The northern branch of the Metropolitan Police mortuary lay near the River Thames, in an area of Westminster dominated by dirty streets and grimy buildings. To the south was Millbank Penitentiary, to the east the chartered gas works, and to the west the run-down Grey Coat Hospital. It never ceased to amaze Lonsdale how such a seedy and unkempt area could be located so close to the homes of the upper classes along Victoria Street.
The mortuary was one of the most ramshackle buildings of all, and Lonsdale wondered whether it would survive another winter without some serious repairs. Black water trickled down its walls from leaking gutters, and its wooden door was flaking and rotten. Had it been anything other than a repository for the dead, he was certain thieves would have smashed the filthy windows in their decaying frames, and stolen everything inside.
The door stood ajar, and an oil lamp within threw a feeble yellow gleam into the gloom of a hallway. Wafts of death and strong chemicals billowed out, ranker than the ever-present stench of rotting horse manure and poisoned river that pervaded the city. When no one answered his knock, Lonsdale walked in, calling Dr Bradwell’s name. There was no reply.
The hallway stretched away into blackness. Lonsdale took a few tentative steps, then froze at the sound of scrabbling claws on the stone floor. Rats! He was about to take the lamp to light his way, when it gave a sharp hiss and went out, leaving him in the dark. A quick shake revealed that it had run out of fuel. He considered lighting one of the gas lamps on the wall, but then decided against it, feeling that if they were in as poor repair as the rest of the place, he was likely to blow it and himself to kingdom come.
More rats skittered in the darker reaches of the corridor as Lonsdale rummaged in his pockets for matches – he did not smoke, but he always carried a box of Alpine Vesuvians. He struck one, and began to make his way down the dismal corridor, noticing that the walls glistened with black slime, while insects moved this way and that over the foul, speckled surfaces.
At the end of the hall was a sturdy door, with a line of light gleaming along the bottom. Lonsdale’s match went out, leaving him in darkness again. He stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was no reply, and he was just reaching for the handle, when it was flung open. A figure silhouetted against the bright light behind advanced on him menacingly.
‘What do you want? We’re not in the business of cat food, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘I don’t have a cat,’ replied Lonsdale, wondering what sort of person usually visited the police mortuary. ‘I’m from The Pall Mall Gazette. Are you Dr Bradwell?’
‘One of Stead’s fellows?’ asked the shadow, the belligerence fading from his voice. ‘And women, of course, because one mustn’t forget Miss Friederichs. Is she with you?’ He stepped forward to peer hopefully into the gloom.
‘I came alone,’ said Lonsdale.
‘Pity,’ sighed Bradwell, stepping aside to allow Lonsdale to enter his domain. ‘Miss Friederichs is always welcome here.’
‘That must be a comfort to her,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Do you have a specific slab in mind?’
Bradwell gazed at him blankly for a moment before giving a sharp bark of laughter. He was a stocky man in his late thirties, with neat black hair and lively brown eyes. He sported thick sideburns, and his face was prematurely lined, although with laughter or care Lonsdale could not tell. He wore a thick apron, like the ones favoured by the fish porters at Billingsgate, which was stained with ominous smears.
The mortuary’s inner sanctum comprised a large square room with a low ceiling that Lonsdale could have touched – not that he would have tried, as it was dappled with all manner of filth. Pressed along three of the walls were waist-level tables, occupied by human shapes covered with grey blankets. He estimated that there were about thirty in all, although this was insufficient, as several were doubled up with occupants.
In the centre of the room were two more tables, larger than the surrounding ones, with a lever at one end to adjust their heights. A brightly burning gas lamp hung above one, while a trolley bearing a grisly selection of instruments stood to one side. The sulphurous, cloying stench of blood and decay was overpowering, but Lonsdale resisted the urge to cover his nose with his handkerchief, knowing he would grow used to the odour. It was not the first time he had visited such places, and, during his days in Africa, he had grown inured to the sight and smell of violent slaughter.
There was but one other living occupant in the room. He was an unkempt-looking man with a poor complexion, a scraggly brown-and-grey beard, and a head of long greasy hair, parted in the middle of a flaking scalp. He wore an apron similar to Bradwell’s, and slouched near the wall, picking his teeth.
‘Have you come about the Hackney Road murder?’ asked Bradwell, indicating the waxy-white figure that lay on one of the central tables. There was a wide, deep wound on the victim’s throat, and bone and cartilage gleamed through the mess of red and black. ‘There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. He was killed by a single slash to the neck. The killer has already been apprehended, so there’ll be no hue and cry over the police not catching the culprit.’
Lonsdale opened his mouth to tell Bradwell that he had come about the Wyndham Street death, but the doctor was not easy to interrupt. Lonsdale imagined that the sullen assistant, who still poked at his long yellow teeth, was unlikely to be much of a conversationalist, and supposed the pathologist was taking advantage of different company.
‘It’s difficult to conceal a murder like this,’ continued Bradwell enthusiastically. ‘Blood spurts from the neck, and unless you know what you’re doing, you’ll end up as covered with it as your victim. It makes escape more difficult. Why’s Stead interested in this case?’
‘He isn’t,’ said Lonsdale. ‘We’d like to know about Patrick Donovan – the man who died in Wyndham Street.’
‘Really?’ asked Bradwell. He shrugged in a way that suggested he considered Donovan’s the last case in which anyone should be interested. He turned to the slouching man. ‘Bring in the burned one, please, O’Connor.’
O’Connor gazed listlessly at the covered shapes as though he expected Donovan to sit up and identify himself. Bradwell sighed.
‘We put him outside, remember?’ He turned to Lonsdale. ‘He was making the place smell.’
‘Yes, I can see that would be unpleasant,’ said Lonsdale, wondering how they imagined Donovan’s body might make a difference to the choking stench that already pervaded the building.
O’Connor returned with a clanking trolley. It carried a burden that was an unusual shape under its rough, grey blanket. Bradwell whipped the cover off with a flourish, like a magician removing a handkerchief to reveal a golden egg, and underneath lay Patrick Donovan, fists still clenched, knees still bent, and head still a mashed pulp.
Lonsdale was aware of Bradwell watching him, and kept his expression blank. He knew perfectly well that the surgeon had hauled the blanket away in such a dramatic fashion in the hope of shocking him – as a form of initiation to the morgue that would cause the reporter to run from the room in horror. It was by no means the first time a pathologist had played that particular trick on an unsuspecting visitor.
‘So?’ Lonsdale asked, meeting Bradwell’s disappointed gaze.
‘Typical pose for a fire victim,’ said Bradwell, turning his attention to the body and pointing at the fisted hands. ‘The muscles contract to make the corpse look as though it’s ready for a fight. So what do you want to know? It’s pretty clear to me how he died.’
‘Is it?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised.
Bradwell’s eyes narrowed warily, as though he thought Lonsdale was trying to make fun of him. ‘Surely even a layman can see that he’s been in a fire.’
‘But did the flames kill him, was he overcome by smoke, or did he die from the injury to his head?’ asked Lonsdale.
‘Oh, I see what you mean. The police don’t usually want that kind of detail. House fires are so common that we tend not to waste much time on them. The inquest will be little more than a formality, and the coroner will record the incident as death by fire.’
‘You won’t even perform a post mortem?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Bradwell. ‘But it won’t be the kind of in-depth investigation that I’d do for the Hackney Road murder. I’ll look at his heart and lungs, and then I’ll assess the degree of burning – which you can see is severe.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Basically. Whether the cause of death was smoke inhalation, burning, or injuries sustained from falling masonry is irrelevant. That he died in the fire is usually enough for the records.’
‘And you say it happens a lot?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘People dying in fires?’
Bradwell looked grim. ‘More often than you’d think. People underestimate fires, and they usually don’t live to learn their lesson. The smoke overwhelms them and they end up like your friend here.’
‘Is that what happened to him?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Death by asphyxiation?’
‘I can’t say without inspecting his lungs. I was planning to leave him until tomorrow, but as you’re here, I suppose I could do it now. I’ll be late home, but my wife’s used to it.’
He and O’Connor transferred the charred remains to the other central table.
‘What’s your bet?’ asked the surgeon, selecting a short, silver knife from the trolley. ‘I’ll put ten shillings on smoke inhalation. We might as well have a little fun, if I’m doomed to spend an evening in the frosty silence of a wife who objects to my long working hours.’
‘I’ll go for the head crushing,’ said Lonsdale, wondering how he had ended up in the police mortuary on a wet afternoon betting on the cause of someone’s death with a man wearing a fishmonger’s apron.
For the next few minutes, the room was silent except for moist sucking sounds and the cracking of bones. Lonsdale watched for a while, then began to wander around the room, first inspecting the rows of gleaming instruments and then studying a stained chart on the wall that showed the major muscles. O’Connor watched him intently, and Lonsdale sensed that if he tried to touch anything, the mortuary attendant would leap to slap his hand away.
‘You seem more inured to this than most reporters,’ said Bradwell, not looking up from his work. ‘Yet I haven’t seen you before.’
‘I worked in Africa,’ replied Lonsdale. ‘Violent death is no stranger there.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Bradwell suddenly. ‘Look at this!’
Lonsdale leaned over him to see where he was pointing, but could determine nothing from the mass of blackened tissue and bone that had so excited the doctor. He said so.
‘Neither of us will be claiming that ten shillings,’ said Bradwell, straightening and eyeing Lonsdale soberly. ‘This man died from neither smoke inhalation nor a crushing of the head. However, someone has made off with part of his brain – his cerebrum.’
For a moment, Lonsdale was too startled to say anything. He gazed at the police surgeon in astonishment, aware that the mortuary assistant was doing likewise from a shadowy corner near the door.
‘What?’ he gasped when he eventually found his voice. ‘You must be mistaken!’
Bradwell pursed his lips in annoyance, as if Lonsdale were questioning his professionalism. ‘I assure you I’m not. Can you see a cerebrum in that skull?’
‘I couldn’t tell you one way or the other,’ said Lonsdale, looking down at the mess that had been Donovan’s head, ‘what with the charring and the crushing. Perhaps whatever bit you mean leaked out or was incinerated.’
‘The cerebrum is the largest part of the brain,’ said Bradwell stiffly. ‘It wouldn’t just “leak out” and, even after burning, there should be some of it left.’
‘So what happened to it, then?’ asked Lonsdale sceptically.
‘I have no idea. But it didn’t disappear of its own accord. And since it didn’t go naturally, I can only assume that someone took it.’
Lonsdale began to laugh. ‘Stead! He told you to spin me some outrageous tale, so that I’ll write it up and provide him with an endless source of amusement.’
‘You don’t know him very well, if you think that,’ said Bradwell reproachfully. ‘He might have an odd sense of humour, but he would never make a joke of someone’s death.’
Bradwell was right, yet what the surgeon was suggesting was outrageous.
‘But Donovan’s neighbours saw him run into the street shouting about a fire,’ argued Lonsdale. ‘I need no medical expertise to assert that he couldn’t have done that without his brain.’
‘Then his cerebrum must have been removed after he returned to his house,’ said Bradwell firmly. ‘Intriguingly, the rest of the brain is still there, including the cerebellum, the thalamus, and the brain stem.’
‘So you think someone followed Donovan into his burning house – unseen by the neighbours – whipped out his cerebrum, and left?’ asked Lonsdale incredulously.
‘I’m a physician,’ said Bradwell icily. ‘I leave that sort of speculation to the police. I deal in evidence and facts: and the fact here is that there is no cerebrum in this skull!’
Lonsdale rubbed his eyes. Although he had sensed something odd about Donovan’s death, he had not imagined it would transpire to be anything as sinister – or peculiar – as a missing organ.
‘Are you sure someone didn’t take it while the body was out in your yard?’ he asked. ‘When I first arrived, you thought I was looking for cat food, so you obviously deal with some very odd people.’
‘We have a high wall topped by broken glass. If someone were to climb over that, he’d want more than a cerebrum.’ Bradwell gestured that the reporter should move closer. ‘The skull has been smashed, as you so eloquently pointed out, but if you look here, you’ll see that the line of fracture isn’t jagged – it’s straight. In other words, someone sawed carefully around the top of this man’s head, much as I did to the gentleman over there, who died from a fall.’
O’Connor lifted a blanket covering one of the corpses to reveal that a circular disc of skull had been removed from the top of the head, allowing the brain within to be examined.
‘This is becoming even more outrageous!’ exclaimed Lonsdale. ‘Now you’re suggesting that whoever did this had a degree of medical knowledge?’
Bradwell did not reply but fetched a magnifying glass for a closer look. ‘Hah! I’m right! You can see the striations made by the saw.’
Still sceptical, Lonsdale took the glass and noted that there were indeed marks that looked unnatural.
‘But what really convinces me that this didn’t happen accidentally,’ said Bradwell, ‘is that every part of the cerebrum is gone. It is normally anchored to the skull by membranes, and it’s necessary to detach each one very carefully to remove it in one piece.’
‘But what could someone want with a cerebrum?’ asked Lonsdale, bemused. ‘You can hardly put it on your mantelpiece.’
‘The world’s a queer place,’ put in O’Connor sagely, speaking for the first time from where he leaned against one of the tables, his hand placed without any thought on the chest of the body under the blanket. ‘Full of strange folk with strange customs.’
‘This is scarcely a custom, O’Connor,’ said Bradwell.
‘I blame the newspapers, personally.’ O’Connor cast a venomous glance at Lonsdale. ‘They write about all those peculiar places, and it gives people funny ideas.’
‘What sort of places?’ asked Lonsdale, searching his memory for a report from one of the Empire’s far-flung outposts about corpse mutilation.
‘Scotland,’ said O’Connor, making it sound more sinister than Hades. ‘And Manchester. And let’s not forget High Wycombe, that vile pit of filth and corruption.’
‘Let’s not,’ agreed Lonsdale, struggling not to smile.
Bradwell returned to the blackened corpse. ‘What I imagine happened was this: your man Donovan was killed, his cerebrum removed, and then his skull smashed so that it would appear as though it had been crushed by falling rubble – a ploy designed to prevent a busy, underpaid police surgeon from looking any closer.’
He picked up a knife and investigated further, while Lonsdale watched, his mind teeming with questions. O’Connor busied himself at a sink. While Bradwell worked, Lonsdale studied him covertly. The tiredness in his face, his inexpensive clothes, and his harried air suggested he was a poorly paid hospital physician, forced to undertake additional duties as a police surgeon to make ends meet. He had mentioned a wife, and might even have children to support. Regardless, Lonsdale felt certain that his mortuary work resulted from necessity rather than choice. Eventually, Bradwell straightened up.
‘If Donovan died from smoke inhalation, there would be soot in his lungs. There isn’t.’
‘I knew there was something odd about this,’ said Lonsdale, more to himself than the doctor. ‘Right from the start.’
‘And I’d have missed it if you hadn’t been here with your ten shillings,’ said Bradwell. ‘I had seven post mortems to do today – this makes eight – and I’m expected at St Bartholomew’s Hospital for the night shift. I don’t have time to waste on the obvious cases. Lord help us! I wonder how many others I’ve missed?’
‘How many fatal fires have you had recently?’ asked Lonsdale, thinking without enthusiasm about exhumations.
‘Five or six.’ Bradwell brightened a little. ‘But I can quite safely state that none had a crushed head, and I’d have noticed if someone had taken a slice from the top of a complete one.’
‘So, what happens now?’ asked Lonsdale.
‘I inform the police about my findings, and you tell them why you suspected Donovan’s death was not all it seemed. Then they investigate.’
Lonsdale regarded him for a moment. Yes, he would tell the police what he knew, but he would also meet Cath Walker tomorrow night. There might be credence to her claims after all.
Lonsdale was woken the next morning by the customary tap on his door, which preceded the entry of Hillary, the older, primmer of the household’s two maids, with tea and toast. She placed the tray beside the bed and opened the curtains. Lonsdale pulled the sheet over his head to avoid the daylight.
While Lonsdale groaned and muttered his way into wakefulness, Hillary bustled about, brushing ash from the fireplace and lighting a fire. She then went to draw his bath, knowing that, although he invariably grumbled immediately upon awakening, soon he was bursting with energy. Thus, before long, Lonsdale had bathed, dressed, breakfasted, and was striding towards the offices of The PMG.
He had intended to spend the day investigating the Donovan case, but life as a reporter was never predictable, and he arrived to learn that one of the sub-editors was ill – and as the first liner through the door that morning, he was assigned to replace him. Lonsdale considered objecting, but not for long – he would not win the contest for a permanent post if he questioned orders. Then followed a day that was so hectic that he had scant time to even think of the man in the mortuary with the mangled head – other than when he took ten minutes to talk to the policeman who came to take his statement at noon.
Late in the day, Stead called to Lonsdale, who stepped into the assistant editor’s office.
‘You have fifteen minutes,’ said Stead, while standing with his back to the door, warming a glass of stout on some exposed hot-water pipes.
Lonsdale regarded him blankly. ‘For what?’
‘To be at the Garrick Club, where Harris will be waiting. So go – Voules can finish here.’
Lonsdale did not need to be told twice, as he would need to shift if he did not want to be late. ‘You spoke to him?’ he asked, brushing off his coat and grabbing his hat.
Stead nodded. ‘He is expecting you. Can I assume that you will be meeting Miss Walker afterwards?’
‘Most definitely,’ said Lonsdale, nodding in a gesture of farewell and making for the door.
The Garrick Club occupied a handsome, twenty-year-old Italianate building near Leicester Square. The area was not the usual venue for such establishments – most were located near Pall Mall and St James’s Street – but gentlemen’s clubs were becoming increasingly popular, and more were being founded every few years. The Garrick was known for a membership that included actors, journalists, and barristers.
When Lonsdale arrived, Harris was waiting at the porter’s lodge. ‘You’re late,’ he said irritably, as he wrote their names on the thick cream paper of the visitors’ book.
Harris was a stocky American, who possessed a wide jaw filled with a set of vast gleaming teeth that Lonsdale was certain were false. He had a long-standing bet on the matter with Hulda, who maintained that no one would spend good money on a set of dentures that looked so patently unreal. Several attempts by both had been made to find out the true status of the teeth, but Harris had so far eluded their efforts to solve the mystery.
‘I appreciate your invitation,’ said Lonsdale pleasantly. ‘It’s good of you.’
‘It is,’ agreed Harris gracelessly. ‘And you can expect me to call on you for a return favour some day. You and Stead.’
Lonsdale raised his eyebrows. Reciprocation went without saying, so it was in poor taste to mention it. He fought down his dislike of the man, although something Hulda had said came unbidden into his mind – that Harris had a reputation for getting young, gullible reporters drunk, then stealing their ideas. Such behaviour – as well as his lack of subtlety and his natural tendency to boorishness – was part of why the American was unpopular among London’s press fraternity. But the dislike went deeper than his personal qualities or the natural rivalry between reporters. Harris was seen as the embodiment of The New York Herald, a paper with a huge circulation and power in the United States – and that could even be purchased in London. But it was also a newspaper that most of the members of the English press considered to be, as one of Morley’s friends wrote, ‘cheap, filthy, false, and extravagant … appealing to the basest of instincts, with sensational stories about romance, rape, murder, suicide, and improbable tales from exotic lands.’
Despite his reservations about the man, Lonsdale followed Harris inside. The Garrick boasted the same elements as most clubs: a sizeable drawing room lit by tall windows; a more formal, panelled morning room; and a variety of other facilities, including a library and a billiards hall. On the walls of its impressive staircase was a magnificent collection of artwork, said to be the finest of any club in London. On the first floor there was a reading room, a coffee lounge, and a dining hall to cater for men who chose not to return home for an evening meal.
‘Wilson will be in the reading room,’ said Harris, pointing to a door. ‘I’ve got better things to do than spend an evening in the company of that crusty old buzzard, so I’m off to eat. You can sign yourself out.’
‘Very well,’ said Lonsdale, thinking he would never let Harris loose in his club. Moreover, as Lonsdale was about to pester Wilson in the one place normally considered a haven from such encounters, Harris leaving him to his own devices was rather rash, as there were likely to be repercussions for the man who had let him in.
Lonsdale entered the reading room and immediately saw Wilson dozing near the fireplace, chest covered by a copy of that morning’s Standard. He sat for a moment on a leather chair across from Wilson, to study his prey. The director of the Zoological Gardens possessed an ample belly, wild black eyebrows that looked as though they were trying to escape from him in any direction possible, and a bald crown circled by unruly tufts that had been rumpled into miniature horns. In the midst of his thick-featured face, blubbery lips quivered each time he breathed.
The reading room was almost empty. An elderly gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers muttered to himself next to the window, disturbing a thin gentleman who was trying to read a newspaper, while a third sat and gazed blankly into space. He sat so still that Lonsdale began to wonder if he was dead. Then a waiter arrived with a large glass of brandy and a box of cigars, and the man stirred to avail himself of them. Almost immediately, the pungent stench of the cigar filled the room; Lonsdale had seldom smelled anything quite so rank, even at the mortuary, and wondered why the fellow elected to choose such a brand.
Wilson awoke from his nap choking. ‘Good God, man!’ he gasped, flapping at the air in front of him. ‘What are you burning this time? Nettles soaked in lion urine?’
‘An interesting notion,’ called his colleague cheerfully. ‘Nettles are easy to come by, although the lion urine might prove a challenge. I don’t suppose you could procure me a drop?’
Wilson glared at him, then produced his own case of cigars. After a moment’s hesitation, he offered one to Lonsdale, who declined.
‘These will help cover up the smell of Deacon’s foul concoctions,’ he said, before stopping and studying Lonsdale with a hard stare. ‘I haven’t seen you here before, although you do have a familiar look. Are you a new member?’
‘A guest of Ambrose Harris,’ replied Lonsdale. He proffered a hand. ‘Alec Lonsdale of The Pall Mall Gazette.’
Wilson’s handshake was firm enough to hurt. ‘Scurrilous Liberal rag! I have argued not to take it at the Garrick. Much better to have an honest, Conservative evening paper like The St James’s Gazette.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Lonsdale, more calmly than he felt was warranted after such an insult. ‘Few newspapers offer more insightful political reviews than The PMG.’
‘Rubbish,’ retorted Wilson. ‘“Liberal” and “insightful” are mutually exclusive concepts. By the way, I’m Dr Oliver Wilson, secretary of the Royal Zoological Society and director of the Zoological Gardens. No doubt you’ve heard of me?’
‘I’ve visited the zoo a number of times recently,’ replied Lonsdale carefully. ‘You’ve done an admirable job with the great apes.’
‘We expect a renewed interest in apes over the next few weeks,’ said Wilson, paring off the end of his cigar with a silver pocketknife. ‘Darwin’s death will resurrect the fascination with them that we had in the sixties.’
‘People looking for their great-grandfather?’ mused Lonsdale.
Wilson leaned back in his chair and eyed Lonsdale through a pall of smoke that was every bit as foul as Deacon’s. ‘Not a believer in natural selection? That’s unusual in a man of your generation. They usually leap to defend modern science against us older, wiser fellows.’
‘I accept most of Darwin’s theories,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But only in nature. I can’t agree with Herbert Spencer and those who apply Darwin’s ideas to humans. If natural selection is operating in us, then why are there so many poor and sick?’
‘Because our society has transcended the principles that apply to nature,’ replied Wilson with unexpected vigour. ‘We are godlike compared to the rest of the beasts, and we have used our powers to bypass natural selection. Now we need to use that knowledge to force natural selection to operate once again, for the benefit of our species as a whole.’
‘How?’ asked Lonsdale, not at all sure what Wilson was telling him.
‘By not allowing the lower classes to breed indiscriminately, like animals – because we are not animals. We must decide who produces offspring, and who does not.’
‘An unnatural selection, you mean?’ said Lonsdale coolly. He had heard such arguments before, and considered them unethical and impractical.
‘On the contrary, what could be more natural than man using his intellect to improve his race? The greatest minds of all time have supported the notion. Plato’s Republic idealized a society with constant selection for the improvement of human stock. And the Old Testament makes positive references to such concepts.’
‘I’m not sure most experts on the Bible would agree,’ countered Lonsdale. ‘And those examples don’t speak to the reality of today.’
Wilson was becoming angry. ‘In savage societies, the weak in body or mind soon die, so the ones that survive are stronger, healthier, more vigorous. But we, the “civilized” society, interfere with this process. We build hospitals for the sick, asylums for the imbeciles, and homes for the maimed. We try to extend life for every moment possible, which means the weak have been allowed to propagate. Anyone who has bred animals will tell you that this is highly injurious to the race of man.’
Lonsdale wanted to ask who, in Wilson’s scheme, would decide which individuals were allowed to reproduce, but as he could not use such a frightening interpretation of evolutionary theory in his article, he decided he had better steer the conversation to something less controversial.
‘Do you think—?’
‘It’s obvious,’ Wilson interrupted, leaning forward with the gleam of the fanatic in his eyes, ‘that the high birth rate among the poor is a threat to our very civilization. You see, morals and criminal behaviour are linked to specific physiological types. If a person possesses these physical features – which are much more common in the lower classes – then it’s likely that his behaviour will soon degenerate into the criminal or the immoral. Because both behaviour and physiological types are inherited, these people must be prevented from producing offspring. Then we’ll have what we all want – a world with no crime and no sin.’
‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that,’ Lonsdale objected.
‘I’ve applied such methods in the zoo. I isolate the weak and ugly animals, and only allow the strong and attractive to breed. You must have noticed that all my monkeys are powerful, handsome beasts?’
‘But people don’t live in monkey houses,’ Lonsdale pointed out. ‘How do you propose to prevent human beings from breeding – short of putting them in our already overflowing prisons?’
‘Something must be done, and it will be done,’ replied the director. ‘You’ll see, soon enough.’ He raised his paper to indicate that the discussion was over. It most certainly was not closed for Lonsdale, however.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded, clenching his fists to prevent himself from hauling the newspaper away from Wilson’s face.
The paper was lowered impatiently. ‘Exactly what I say. We can’t go on as we are. Our cities can’t provide for a population that continues to increase, and the lower classes – which breed at such a ghastly pace – won’t sit idly by and accept the division between rich and poor forever. Disraeli gave them a vote. Gladstone and his cronies gave them education. So now they have aspirations, and if we don’t control them, they’ll revolt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must bid you goodnight.’
He tossed his newspaper to one side, and stalked out. Watching him leave, Lonsdale realized that the encounter had left him with nothing he could possibly use in his article.
The visit to the Garrick Club had not only been unproductive, it had made Lonsdale late for his meeting with Cath Walker. The bells had long since finished chiming eight and the light had almost faded when he reached the Gloucester Gate entrance to Regent’s Park. He headed toward the huge drinking fountain on the Broad Walk – the wide but poorly lit road that traversed the park from north to south.
As Lonsdale neared the fountain, which was illuminated by its own lamp, he slowed and became more cautious. The path that led to the bandstand, a short distance west, appeared to be deserted. He peered into the darkness, and could just see the outline of the bandstand, eerie in the deepening shadows. He had not realized how few lights there were and how dark the park could be; a lone, unarmed man was an easy target. But he told himself that his experiences in Africa – which had taught him more than a modicum of self-defence – combined with having boxed at Cambridge, made him capable of defending himself reasonably respectably.
He approached the bandstand warily. It had a conical roof supported by wrought-iron pillars and was surrounded by waist-high railings. The chairs on which the band sat were piled in the middle and covered with a tarpaulin. There was no one to be seen.
He was reaching for the railing when a rustle brought him to a standstill. Away to the right was a row of bushes and trees, a pleasant, shady area for those who did not want to sit in the sun to listen to music. Had the noise come from there? He took several steps towards it.
‘Miss Walker?’ he called softly. For several moments, nothing happened, then there was a dull thud behind him. He had spun round before realizing with disgust that he had fallen for an old trick: someone had thrown a stone behind him to make him turn, so he could be attacked from behind.
He had barely started to whip back around when he was knocked from his feet. He went sprawling onto the wet ground, feeling sodden grass against his face. He rolled, aware that his attacker was already bearing down on him. Against the dark grey sky, he saw something glint before it plunged down.
He squirmed sideways and kicked out, catching his assailant across the backs of his legs. There was a grunt as the man tumbled to the ground, but as Lonsdale struggled to his knees, someone else grabbed him from behind. A detached part of his mind acknowledged that Jack had been right – Cath had enticed him to an isolated spot where he could be robbed. Anger at his own gullibility spurred him into action.
He jabbed his elbow backwards into the groin of the man behind him, putting every last ounce of his strength into it. There was a satisfying howl of pain, and the man doubled over. The man with the knife circled, a dim silhouette in the dark. Lonsdale feinted to his left, and then followed with a right cross that connected with the man’s jaw with a loud crack. The man went down as though poleaxed and lay still.
Lonsdale swung round quickly, sensing that the knifeman’s accomplice had recovered and was preparing another attack, but a well-aimed rock hit him squarely on the eyebrow, making bright lights explode inside his head. He struck out blindly to deter the man from coming too close, but when his vision cleared, he did not see his assailant advancing on him but disappearing into the night. He had fled.
Lonsdale knew that the most sensible course of action would be to leave, but he surmised that if Cath’s friends were there, so was she. And he was going to find her. He ignored the still-prostrate attacker and strode to the bushes, listening intently. There was a soft sound, like a moan, then all was silent. He pushed aside an overhanging branch, but could see nothing. He grabbed a stick and began prodding in the undergrowth, aiming to flush her out.
‘Cath! I know you’re—’
He stopped as his foot encountered something soft. He knelt and reached out. His fingers encountered something warm and sticky, and he withdrew them with a sharp intake of breath. Blood! He struggled to light a match. It had barely flared into life before he dropped it in shock, plunging him into darkness once more. Cursing his unsteady hands, he lit another. Lying on her side in the long grass was Cath Walker. He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was still warm, although the gaping wound in her throat and the glassy-eyed stare confirmed she was dead.
He sat back on his heels in bewilderment. Then the flame burned his fingers and brought him to his senses. He stood and hurried back towards the place he had been attacked, aiming to lay hold of the second assailant. But the place was deserted.
Hoping to find a constable, Lonsdale ran back to the Broad Walk, as he knew the police patrolled it at night. As he skidded to a halt on the muddy gravel, a man wearing a top hat shot him a nervous look and hurried on. Lonsdale looked around wildly, then spotted the distinctive domed hat of a policeman in the distance. He tore towards him.
‘There’s a dead woman in the bushes near the bandstand,’ he gasped, seizing the constable’s arm. ‘I think she’s been murdered.’
The constable was young, and excitement suffused his face at the prospect of a vicious crime to explore. He whipped out his rattle and whirled it furiously to attract colleagues within hearing distance. Then he raced off towards the bandstand. Not knowing what else to do, Lonsdale followed, although his thoughts reeled and his head ached. He raised one hand to his head and felt a tender spot where the stone had hit him.
‘She’s dead!’ yelled the policeman, when Lonsdale had directed him to the spot where the body of Cath Walker lay.
‘Yes,’ said Lonsdale tiredly. ‘She was a—’
‘Murder!’ bellowed the policeman, accompanying a frantic and ineffective search of the bushes with more violent shaking of his rattle. Eventually, his colleagues began to arrive. A sergeant took control, while the youngster was posted to the Broad Walk to search for witnesses. Suddenly exhausted, Lonsdale sank down, his back against the metal railing and his chin on his knees.
‘What happened, sir?’ called the sergeant, swiping through the undergrowth with vigorous sweeps of his truncheon. ‘A lovers’ tiff that ended in violence?’
‘It most certainly was not,’ replied Lonsdale indignantly. ‘The woman was a prostitute.’
‘I didn’t mean between you and her, sir,’ said the sergeant placidly. ‘I meant between her and him.’ He pushed back a bush to reveal a second crumpled figure lying in the wet leaves. ‘There are two corpses here, sir, not just one.’
Within the hour, one Inspector George Peters – a lean, spare man whose droopy moustache served to enhance his resemblance to an elderly spaniel – appeared. He ordered the area cordoned off and the search of the bushes abandoned until daylight. Then he turned to questioning Lonsdale.
Unfortunately, the attack had happened fast and a long way from the nearest light, so Lonsdale was unable to furnish much of a description of his assailants. All he could say was they were smaller than him, and had worn dark clothes.
‘Really?’ asked Peters coolly. ‘It may have escaped your notice, Mr Lonsdale, but most men wear dark clothes. Unless they are performing in music halls.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lonsdale rubbed his eyes. ‘It all happened so fast. One minute I was calling the prostitute’s name, and the next they were all over me.’
‘They had knives, you say?’
‘One had a knife. The other threw a stone.’
‘And where is this stone now?’ asked Peters.
Lonsdale stared at him incredulously. ‘I don’t know. On the ground, I imagine. Why?’
Peters shrugged, and with a shock Lonsdale realized that the inspector did not believe a word he was saying. He wondered how to convince the man. He had no desire for a sojourn in police custody until he could contact Jack. But even as he fretted, salvation came in the unlikely form of Robert Bradwell, summoned to inspect the bodies in situ.
‘We meet again,’ Bradwell said, shaking Lonsdale’s hand warmly. ‘Which is more than I can say about my wife. I haven’t been home since I saw you and I’m due at the hospital tonight. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to face her wrath.’ Without further ado, he headed for the bodies. Peters resumed his discussion with Lonsdale, who was feeling wet, cold, and miserable.
‘So, let me summarize,’ said Peters, after Lonsdale had related his story yet again. ‘You came to meet this unfortunate – Cath Walker – in an attempt to discover more about the murder of Patrick Donovan?’
Lonsdale nodded. ‘She said she’d bring someone to answer questions, so we could publish the story in The Pall Mall Gazette and put a stop to it.’
‘I see,’ said Peters. ‘Put a stop to what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lonsdale sensed that the more he said, the less convincing he sounded. ‘She claimed Donovan was at least the sixth to have died, although the only one in a fire.’
‘Although remember that Donovan didn’t die in the fire,’ put in Bradwell helpfully, having finished his duties in the bushes. ‘He died because he was strangled.’
‘What?’ blurted Lonsdale. ‘You didn’t mention this yesterday.’
‘I didn’t know it then. After you left, I re-examined the body, and found that Donovan’s hyoid was broken, although the other neck bones were intact. That’s a classic sign of strangulation – as were faint ligature marks in the charred flesh. So, Donovan was strangled, his cerebrum removed, and his skull smashed and his house burned to make his death appear accidental.’
‘Wait,’ said Peters, raising his hand. He turned to Lonsdale, and fixed him with stern eyes. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of printing this in your newspaper?’
‘We never publish details of police investigations without consent,’ said Lonsdale indignantly. ‘We’re not The Echo, you know.’
‘Good,’ said Peters. ‘You may report that there’s been a double murder in the park, but keep this other business to yourself. In fact, I’ll make you an offer – stay silent until I have this matter in hand, and I’ll give you the details twenty-four hours before I release them to any other papers.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Lonsdale, thinking that all he really wanted was to go home and soak away the horrors of the night in a hot bath. ‘I’ll let my editor know.’
‘However, do not take this as permission to begin your own investigation,’ said Peters. ‘That would be most inadvisable.’
‘Why would someone go to such lengths over a person like Donovan?’ asked Bradwell. ‘I can see someone making an effort to disguise the murder of an aristocrat or a politician. But Donovan was a shop assistant.’
‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ said Lonsdale, watching two constables carry Cath away on a stretcher. ‘Instead, consider why someone was so determined to have his cerebrum.’
‘Good point,’ agreed Bradwell, nodding. ‘The fire seems to have been arranged specifically to ensure that no one noticed it had been taken.’
Peters looked from one to the other, his expression deeply sceptical. ‘But who would have a penchant for … a cerebrum did you call it? Whoever it might be, if we believe Walker’s claim that Donovan was at least the sixth victim, then he has done rather well for himself. But she was an unfortunate, and, in my experience, such women are not reliable witnesses.’
‘Yet it would be rash to dismiss her, just because others in her profession have lied,’ argued Bradwell. ‘Donovan’s death is odd, and she clearly knew something about it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Peters, in the bland tone that Lonsdale began to realize was his normal manner of speaking. ‘But it occurs to me that Mr Lonsdale has a very good reason for wanting us to believe someone else might’ve killed this potentially valuable witness.’
Bradwell raised his hand to silence Lonsdale’s immediate protestations. ‘But Lonsdale discussed her claim with me at the mortuary yesterday. He’d hardly have told me he was planning to meet her if he intended to dispatch the woman, would he?’
‘Maybe not,’ hedged Peters, cautiously.
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Lonsdale said quietly. ‘She said she’d bring proof. Have you searched her body? Perhaps she has something in her pockets that’ll answer your questions.’
‘Of course we searched her body – and that of her friend,’ said Peters, the edge to his voice suggesting that he did not need Lonsdale to tell him how to do his work. ‘There was nothing on either.’ He turned to Bradwell. ‘She claimed another six victims, but surely you would have noticed the absence of a cerebrum in any of your bodies, yes?’
‘I would, of course. However, there is always a possibility that they went to another mortuary. Or were buried secretly. The lack of cerebra in—’
‘The lack of what?’ came a sharply disapproving voice from behind. ‘What in the devil are you talking about?’
‘It seems we may have an overlap between cases, sir,’ said Peters, turning to nod a greeting; Bradwell promptly made himself scarce. ‘Mr Lonsdale, may I introduce Superintendent Ramsey and his assistant, Chief Inspector Leonard.’
Ramsey nodded at Lonsdale but made no attempt to shake hands, although his assistant smiled pleasantly enough. The two officers could not have been more different. The superintendent was tall, aloof and self-important, with a thick, white moustache; his lofty demeanour and elegant dress made him appear more like a member of the House of Lords than a policeman. His assistant was short, thin, and cheerful, and wore a Norfolk jacket and the kind of old-fashioned knickerbockers that Lonsdale was surprised could still be purchased.
‘Mr Lonsdale is assisting us with our enquiries,’ Peters said. ‘Or would you care to take charge of the case?’
‘Hardly, George!’ laughed Leonard. ‘The superintendent has more important—’
‘Every murder is important,’ Ramsey interrupted pompously. ‘It doesn’t matter if the victim is a Member of Parliament or an unfortunate. I’ll maintain a watch on it, but the case is yours, Peters. Now tell us what happened.’
Both officers listened as Peters gave them a summary. Leonard shook his head in silent compassion, while Ramsey’s sallow face remained expressionless. When Peters mentioned the mutilation of Donovan, Ramsey gave a shudder of disgust.
‘These damned perverts! You put one behind bars, and another appears. London is a veritable breeding ground for them. We need to nip this one in the bud, Peters. I don’t want head-stealing lunatics frightening every decent soul in the city.’
And with that, he turned and strode away, not deigning to acknowledge the salutes of his constables. Leonard shot Peters an apologetic smile and made a hurried offer of help before hurrying after him.
‘You may be reading too much into this, Bradwell,’ said Peters when Bradwell reappeared, continuing the discussion as though the two officers had not interrupted. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to tamp it with tobacco. ‘You’re trying to intellectualize what might be a simple, brutish crime.’
‘Simple?’ echoed Bradwell. ‘Someone went to a good deal of trouble to try to make me miss the fact that Donovan had been strangled and mutilated. It wasn’t simple, Inspector, although I concur it was brutal.’
Peters was thoughtful. ‘How about this for an explanation,’ he began, puffing billows of white smoke into the still night air. ‘Donovan was strangled over some private grudge, and his body mutilated as a bizarre form of revenge. When Walker saw Mr Lonsdale making notes at the scene of his death, she saw an opportunity to lure him here to rob him. But her accomplices decided a four-way division of spoils was less attractive than a two-way split, and killed her and her friend. Mr Lonsdale then fought off the remaining two.’
It was a plausible scenario, and Lonsdale could not deny that he had questioned her motives himself. He did not reply, so Peters began to issue orders to his men, instructing them to find out where she had lived and the identity of her companion. While respectable London would soon be retiring to bed, another side of the city would just be waking. It was among them that Peters would concentrate his search.
‘You can give your formal statement tomorrow, Mr Lonsdale,’ he said. ‘Tonight, I’d rather have my men out on the streets looking for the killers.’
‘One of the policemen who attended the fire at Donovan’s house knew Cath Walker,’ said Lonsdale helpfully. ‘He might know where she lived.’
‘There are hundreds of police officers in London,’ said Peters dryly. ‘I don’t suppose you could furnish me with a name?’
‘No, but I can tell you the number he wore on his collar.’
‘Yes?’ Peters looked marginally impressed.
‘Six-nine-six-D.’
Peters stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lonsdale, puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Police Constable Cyril Iverson, number six-nine-six-D, is no longer with the force,’ replied Peters. ‘He disappeared six months ago, while on duty, and hasn’t been seen since. Well, not by us at least. His antics have certainly been reported by a number of other people, however.’